You can say anything you like, but you can't touch the merchandise.

I wish when customers were ogling my jewelry, they would not go so far as to touch it. Women are always grabbing my goddamn hand when I give them their receipt and crying, "OOOH. I LIKE THAT RING," jerking me two feet forward into the protruding metal bag rack that would puncture my spleen if not for the suffocating burlap workshirt. Today, a lady yanked on my bracelet and was mere seconds from sending pink puka shells sailing into the air and into numerous crevices while she asked me if it was from Hawaii. I told her it was from that display over there and asked for my appendage back.

I guess I should feel complimented. I don't know. I didn't know what the hell to say when this big, huge, hairy man in little shorts demanded to know why I smelled so sweet. I told him it must have been the vanilla lotion I'd just put on. He responded with some intense staring and the utterance of, "Mmmm. Yummy."

I was so creeped out I couldn't finish the magazine I wasn't supposed to be reading.